


Glass Houses

by Darval Freeborn (Vynlenalis), sarcasmfonts



Series: Blood and Chi [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Blood Elves, Blood and Injury, Caning, Consensual Non-Consent, Death Knight, Dubious Consent, Gore, Guro, Heavy BDSM, M/M, Torture, Undead, Violent Sex, romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 14:20:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2232216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vynlenalis/pseuds/Darval%20Freeborn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasmfonts/pseuds/sarcasmfonts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vynlenalis is a Death Knight's masochistic pet. Salein wants to see Vyn shatter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glass Houses

Cool air pricked Vyn's skin as anticipation and nervousness started creeping in on a steady tide. He was, yet again, trussed and strung up like a side of meat by Salein. His hands were bound with rope behind his head that was connected to a line tied to the ceiling. It would keep him standing upright if he lost his balance or became light-headed. The monk’s legs were spread wide, also secured to either side of him.

Filling his mouth was a round leather gag. Filling his ass was a large, heavy, smooth glass sphere, oiled and slowly worked in. It created a lovely, heavy fullness — but he was told in no uncertain terms that if he let it slip out there would be fel to pay. So clench that hole like your ass depended on it, sweetheart.

Salein stepped back to admire his handiwork. Vyn was just pretty as a picture.

Vyn had been completely docile as Sal arranged and bound him. He craved love, and in measure kindness and sweet words. Hugs like the one Sal had given him the night he was attacked. He needed those things. But too much coddling and anxiety inevitably set in. It showed in his every action. The way he braided and re-braided his hair, the amount of food in the pantry left uneaten, the number of books stacked on his desk that remained unopened.

So when the Death Knight came for him Vyn's eagerness to earn his keep and have his demons set again at bay overshadowed any underlying sense of fear. Now the initial relief was fading as the hairs at the back of the monk's neck stood on end. Hung like this, legs forcibly splayed and ass so delightfully stuffed, hugs didn't sound so bad anymore.

Vynlenalis kept his eyes cast down and his body still as he could. It was the only way he had to show his obedience, other than keeping that ball in. That is what scared him, something that size wasn't so hard to contain. Not under normal circumstances. That meant Sal meant to make it difficult, and gods only knew how.

Salein walked out of the room, coming right back with a stack of a dozen or so bamboo staves under one arm. Each was about the width of a finger and a yard long. He leaned forward, dropping the stack with a wickering noise. Picked up one, looked at it, dropped it and picked up another. He slapped it against the palm of his hand a few times and grinned.

Vyn's head swiveled towards the sound. Sal could see the sharp outlines of his abdomen tighten as his stomach knotted into a tight pit. The monk had never been caned. He had never seen anyone be caned. But he had heard stories. None of them were good, filled with recounts of loud screams and bodies falling to the spasming in pain after.

Nothing was worse than the unfamiliar. He'd been cut, stabbed, peeled, wrenched and burned. But not this. To make it even worse, caning was associated with punishment. Retribution. And worst of all, humiliation. Nobles were not caned. They just weren't. Such base torment was reserved for the lower class, the unwashed masses. Not elves like him.

If there was any way he could fall to the ground and grovel he would. He was better than this. He could show Sal if given the chance. But even speech was not an option. All he could do was try and catch Sal's eye, give a pleading shake of his head and a pathetic look.  _Please, oh gods please no. Don't you see I am better than this?_

Salein was unaware of all the associations with caning — he was never a noble, and didn't deal with all of the social proprietaries that came with. He'd had his ass swatted with slender, stinging birch branches plenty growing up. To him, it was simply a useful tool, and all Vyn's sad-eyed looks were just pathetic begging to get out of some necessary admonishments. Well, okay. They weren't really necessary. He just sure as fuck enjoyed it.

The Death Knight paced slowly around Vyn a few times, stopping in front of him. He let his monk get more and more agitated, slapping his hand with the rod, smiling.

Vyn shook his head again, fervently this time. That was one way his behavior had been gradually shifting, and probably to Sal's delight. The knight could recall the first few times he had tormented Vynlenalis, beginning with the first time he had cut him, the monk's head still spinning from how Sal had slammed it down on the rock. Oh how proud and stoic his monk had been that night, his eyes steeled and his body stilled in quiet resolve. So bent on proving himself.

This had changed more and more of late. Easier and easier it was becoming to make Vyn break and beg, tears streaming down his face, no concern for his own wounded pride. Less often did his monk attempt refuse his master the sweet sight of his fear, instead opting to openly shed his precious facade of upper class elegance. Now was one of those times. Vyn tried to scream around his gag, making only raspy gagging noises. One word though could be easily inferred. NO.

Sal stepped forward, grinning wider, looking Vyn in the eye. He patted the strung-up elf on the cheek, somehow managing to make the gesture patronizing. He stepped around behind Vee, and started lightly, quickly, tapping the skin of Vyn’s back. It wasn't unpleasant or painful at all — more like someone patting or lightly slapping the skin in a rhythmic pattern. He moved over all of his consort’s backside, back, ass, thighs and calves. He started lingering in spots, tapping a bit harder now, making the sensitive skin almost on the edge of uncomfortable. Occasionally he would flick his wrist for a brighter, stinging note.

Vyn knew this elf, the man he loved, well enough by now to know exactly what he was doing. Savoring, anticipating, allowing his excitement to build. Salein was like a cat — he loved to start with a poke, a playful bat or two, claws still sheathed. Biding his time, conserving his energy. Smelling the fear set in.

The light tapping served another purpose, and Vyn was pretty sure that one was deliberate as well. Every time the bamboo struck his skin with those almost gentle taps it brought the nerves lying underneath to life, ensuring that when he struck in earnest they would already be firing with full force. Sal had to know that.

Vyn did not try and escape the strikes at this point. He was growing more upset by the minute, but he still had control over himself. He was able to remain still in a desperate attempt to show his obedience and mollify his lover. He knew it was useless, but every drowning man fought up until their very last gasp for air. The futility of it didn't matter. The monk grunted loudly at even the slightest stings. Maybe hoping if Sal thought they hurt badly enough he'd not strike as hard in the end.

Salein paused for a moment, running a cool hand over skin  flushed hot and red. It was a soothing contrast, ice on heated flesh. The hand was removed, and replaced with a hard whip-snap to the curve where ass met thigh. The blow didn't break skin, but by the gods it stung.

There was a stripe of hard pain along the bottom of Vyn's ass, causing him to tense up the muscles involuntarily. The pain took a moment to fade, and the monk started to relax, only to feel the flesh where the blow landed slowly fill in with a searing, uncomfortable warmth.

That swath of hot pain that crossed the monk’s upper thigh was a mark upon what remained of his sense of self as much as his body. He drew ragged, pitiful breaths around the rag in his mouth, nose starting to run. His face was wet now, though Sal couldn't see it. His head hung down towards his chest and his ears fell low.

Vyn felt that ball move inside of him as he contracted with pain and tried to focus on it, working to try and bob it up and down inside of him. His back glistened with sweat in the torchlight.

Salein paused, ticking off long seconds as Vee's body unwound. He watched the muscles relax, and once they were completely relaxed, he waited a bit more. Then a second strike, right over the first.

Fuck! That shot a bolt of pain across  Vyn of a kind he'd never experienced before. He tried to scream again, feel the ball move as his ass clenched and pushed out. And he knew this was just the beginning. He couldn't see Sal's face, forbidden even the comfort of seeing how his pain made Sal grin with that cruel smirk. He had nothing.

The stripes on Vyn’s ass were already an angry dark red. Sal paused for another long moment to let Vyn recover, at least physically. Then came another strike, this one across the shoulder blades. The monk’s skin broke this time — just a bit where the tip of the rod bit in. The stripes on his monk’s ass were already an angry dark red. Sal paused for another long moment to let Vyn recover, at least physically.

Now there was no padding to speak of between skin and bone, making the pain far more cutting. Vyn’s entire scrawny body shook violently, arms twisting, shoulders straining against their bindings. Another muffled scream, a gurgling snort of an inhalation through his nose.

The worst of it was how very degrading and impersonal it was. Cutting, stabbing, peeling — all of these were intimate acts in a morbid way. This was nothing but sadistic torment, something Vyn had never known before. Sal could _smell_  the fear quickly building into panic.

A blow fell across Vyn's upper back. A pause. A stripe of burning across his calves. A pause. Tightly wound, carefully controlled. The pauses were a reset, a moment to let the body adjust so that each blow was felt as clearly as the last, and just enough time to let Vyn come back to the present and fear the next whistling thwack.

Vyn was clever, even now. He kept his body tense as he could after the blow to his calves. Focused on the pain of the strike and not the burn that followed. Played it over in his mind while he still had enough control to do so. Fighting that urge to relax.

Salein grit his teeth and hissed out air to clear his head. Vyn's gurgled, muffled screams; the shaking and twitching of his body; the smell of stale, fear-laden sweat; the small pinpricks of blood welling up and running down where a lash had split the skin over an ugly purple mark. All of went into the pit of his stomach, and into his cock.  _Not yet, not yet_... The Death Knight’s arm rose and fell, rose and fell.

Vyn was breathtaking like this — crumbling at the edges, coming undone. Salein wanted to ruin every inch of him. Scream after muffled scream echoed in the cold, damp air. His monk’s hair hung in thick clumps, sticking against the sweat and blood on his back and shoulders, embedded into his flesh. Oh what fun it would be to force his consort to heal it like that and later pull those silken strands back out one by one.

Pain and terror  filled the air around him where he half-stood, half-hung, filling Sal's nostrils and seeping in through the pores of his skin. But there was something else. Love. Even as the monk lost his ability to stand, shoulders wrenching in their sockets, he clung to his devotion to his knight, absolute and unshaken. Vyn’s head fell forward. He was barely conscious now, holding on by the finest of threads as the smooth ball inside of him threatened to slip out.

Salein saw the monk start to slip and reached out and caught the ball as it slid out of him. He dropped the rod, red trailing where it bounced and rolled. The Death Knight stepped forward, wrapping his arms around the failing monk. His cool chest was a balm against Vee's aching back. He caught Vyn's face in one hand, a firm but gentle hold. "Hey. Hey. Come back to me. You're not done yet." Sal had to hand it to his consort. He could hear the strangled grunt in the back of the monk's throat. Two mostly distinct syllables. An attempted 'Yes, Sir.'

Vyn’s eyes fought to a half-opened state before closing again, this time in relief at the feel of the cold flesh that touched him. His knight's flesh. The monk’s skin was clammy with sweat and tears beneath Sal’s hand. Sweet unholy darkness. Vyn nuzzled Sal's hand, the same one that held the switch that tore into his flesh.

Vyn was limp and weightless, but holding onto conscious, just now starting think of being afraid again. He wasn't done yet. Then a wave of horror hit him, surging him back to life with adrenaline. "I dropped it, Sir."

"Mhmm." Sal stroked his hair. "You did."

"I'm sorry..." the monk offered weakly, turning his face towards the floor as his bloodied body tensed in anticipation of whatever his punishment would be.

Sal's hand found his face, stroking it with his thumb again. "Get on your hands and knees." he said softly.

Vyn sobbed quietly, a broken, pathetic sound as he fought his way through the pain enough to comply. The stone floor pressed painfully against his prominent kneecaps, but at least that skin was unbroken. He shook once, nearly crumbling back down, but recovered. The curved flesh of his back, his shoulders, his ass, thighs and calves, all if it was roadmap of burning pain etched into him.

Sal stood, touching Vyn's hair gently and keeping his hand  there for a moment — an affirmation. Recognition of Vyn's struggle. Pride. He tossed the glass ball up in the air and caught it with one hand. Winding up, he tossed it with considerable force to land and shatter about a yard or so from where Vyn was. The shards spread out in a wave, coating the area with tiny glittering razors. A few of the larger pieces skittered along the floor to hit and bounce off Vyn's hands.

Salein waited for the tinkling to settle before looking down at Vyn.

"Crawl."

Vyn hesitated, dread setting in. Oh celestials save him he could not do this. He had to do this.

“Bitch, I said  _crawl_.”

The bark startled the monk forward onto the field of shards. Crunch...crunch — the sound of glass being ground into stone and flesh. Blood pooled on the floor around Vyn's palms and knees. His shins and the bottoms of his nine toes were repeatedly sliced open. Every 'step' seemed to take hours, his body trembling so hard he nearly fell more than once.

Salein watched Vyn crawl movement by agonizing movement. Observing his monk slip and nearly fall, catching himself with a choked, sobbing whimper. The Death Knight tilted his head, leaning forward as his chest and stomach twisted and tightened. It wasn't pity that twisted him up, though. Heavy boots crunched to a stop behind the crawling elf. "Stop."

Salein dropped to his knees behind Vyn. He needed,  _needed_  to pull him in, surround himself with him now, sink his hands and cock into the very essence of Vyn  _now_  while he was torn open and raw, bleeding desperation. The Death Knight’s cock was straining, demanding.

He scooped Vyn up and back onto him, one hand around his neck holding his jaw, the other around his chest and he was inside him he didn’t care if it was dry. The monk was his, and there were words being spoken and Salein realized they were his own.

"...so fucking beautiful,  _take_  you, take you  _apart_ , feel every  _inch_  of you, your body is  _mine_ , your heart is  _mine_ , you are  _mine, mine_..."

Bits of broken glass fell sparkling, raining down from Vyn's hands and elbows, sprinkling onto the floor.

Vyn cried out with a new agony. Sal's cock driving into him, penetrating so fucking deep inside him with nothing but the remnants of oil the ball had left behind. He cried out — a feral, guttural scream that filled his throat and lungs and then the air around them. The primal sounding cry carried with it the pain of the lashings, the terror of the stillness between, the broken fragments of glass ground into skin and the pure, unbroken swelling of Vyn's heart.

The monk screamed again and again, the hinges of his jaw working beneath Sal's hand. Louder and louder each time, feeling the freedom, the release, the exquisite, horrific beauty of it all.  _Again_. His mind was empty, his soul paper-thin and weightless as his body.  _Again_. He was surrounded by death, consumed by it and wrapped in the bloodied arms of its protection.  _Again_. He was a beating heart adorned in sparkling, shattered crystal, polished in his own salty tears.  _Again_. He was nothing,  _nothing_  but what Sal made from him.  

Vyn threw his arms up and backwards, wrapping around the back of the knight's head and neck, riding him like a magnificent, broken bitch with every bob of his hips.

At this point Sal was growling, pulling Vyn up his cock before slamming him down, trying to pound as deeply into him as he could, ragdolling his body. He held Vyn's jaw and shook him bodily like a dog with a rabbit, not caring what state his monk was in at this point, unconscious or awake, broken or whole, still pounding into him.

"Don't you  _DARE_  ever leave me — if you ever walk away from me and I don’t let you go I will  _FIND_  you  _I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU_  — I will take you  _APART_  and destroy  _EVERYONE_  you care about I...I...ah"

Salein came, hands digging into soft parts, holding on tightly. He clenched his eyes shut, pressing his forehead into the torn purple and red skin. "Oh, Vyn..." he whispered softly into the monk's shoulder blades.

Vyn was slumped back against Sal, screaming spent, half conscious in a state of sacred, innocent bliss that only such pain, carved into him with a tender, razor-sharp touch could bring. A transcendence he could never achieve alone.

Sal's words filled his mind like a dream, giving shape to his nothingness. Standing tall and proud within it, defying it. Demanding that he was not small standing over the abyss that was the monk's mind but that it was small next to him. Reaching down and picking it up, rolling it into a ball between his palms and popping it between his teeth and swallowing.

He stirred, his voice hauntingly distant, traveling across the distance of his dream-like state. "I know, Sir. I know. I love you too."

Salein held his monk like that, one hand gripping his chest, the other around his throat, face pressed into Vyn’s back silently, taking a long time to let him go.


End file.
